


Pieces Of My Heart

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anathema is the only one with a braincell, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Coming Out, Crack Treated Seriously, First Kiss, First Time, Gabriel is Awful, Gay Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Top Crowley (Good Omens), fatshaming, omg they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25817677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: From that reddit: Straight guy worries he’s being homophobic to gay roommate, realizes he’s fallen in love with him.Or: It turns out I don't have any problems with Aziraphale kissing guys, says Crowley, if it's me he's kissing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 378
Kudos: 1003
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU, Top Crowley Library





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Born out of an idea in the FB group of Ineffable Writers and encouraged by the lovely people of the GO events Discord server.
> 
> \-------
> 
> A huge thanks to the amazing [HatKnitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for the beta!

Everything had been going so well. 

Crowley sped up his pace and darted through the constant flow of people in Trafalgar Square. It’d been a year he'd been living with Aziraphale, after Lilith kicked him out of her apartment in the throes of their blaring falling-out, and up until a week ago he could've sworn he wasn't a judgmental arsehole. 

He'd never thought himself an homophobic prick, and when the subject had been broached by Aziraphale the night he moved in, Crowley'd said, " _ yes, and _ ?" and that had been the end of it, really. 

Aziraphale was an amazing roommate, and Crowley enjoyed their time together aplenty. They'd settled into a routine of chats over wine and take-out in front of the telly, sometimes with Aziraphale just spearing a glance or two over the top of his book at whatever garish show Crowley had chosen. They’d even indulged in occasional dinners out in restaurants, or shared nights at plays at the National, where Crowley listened fondly to Aziraphale prattling on and on about this and that, and Shakespeare, of all things.

They'd even crossed the Channel one weekend because Aziraphale fancied some crepes and Crowley had been adamant that they have them in Paris. 

It was so easy to spend time with him.

Crowley didn't know what he'd been expecting, really. Of course it couldn't last. Aziraphale had a life to live, and even though Crowley could say they were friends - there were no doubts there - eventually, he was going to find someone.

It was the angel's (never had a moniker been so accurate) right. Obviously.

He skirted around a knot of pedestrians in front of a bakery, and stopped dead in his tracks. Through the glass, he spotted a sinful piece of  _ Sachertorte  _ just sitting there, drawing his undivided attention. He'd learned over the past months that if there was anything that could make Aziraphale bend over backwards, it was a nice dessert. A swell of fondness exploded in his chest at the first sugar-caked memories of what had later become part of their regular food-driven outings. The decadent cake looked like a decent enough apology, coated all in chocolate. According to Aziraphale, chocolate was the perfect remedy for any quandary, and Crowley was betting his luck on it.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped into the Tube carrying a paper bag like a treasure, and rolling a bitter  _ sorry _ in his tongue. His mistakes of the night before still played in his brain, and it'd been nagging him all day, preventing him from focusing on his work.

He'd been a real tosser to, (he couldn't even say his name)  _ Gabriel _ fucking Archer, for absolutely no reason. Even thinking about him made Crowley want to rip things apart, so maybe, just maybe, he was indeed an arse to gay people who weren't his friends. Or, and this take was even worse, he  _ was  _ an homophobe, and the idea of seeing two men holding hands was where he drew the line. Which made absolutely no sense. 

When he finally rocked up to his apartment building, he squared his shoulders and mentally prepared himself to admit to Aziraphale that he'd been an utter twat because his job had his patience running thin.

No way in Hell was he going to voice the reasons he'd unraveled a few minutes ago. 

When it was clear he couldn't keep putting it off, or someone was going to accuse him of lurking around his own flat like some kind of creep, he stepped into the lift and went up.

Once at home, he tossed his keys on a nearby table and strolled into the living room. 

Aziraphale was there, completely absorbed in what seemed an enthralling conversation with Gabriel, charming smiles falling easily from his mouth while the toss-  _ Gabriel, _ softly kissed his knuckles. 

Crowley felt his resolution evaporate into thin air, a sinking lead ball nestling in the pit of his stomach. Unwittingly, his hand clenched around the bag, channeling the sparks of the rant he felt about to burst out of him. The rustle snapped Aziraphale and Gabriel from their shared moment, and two pairs of eyes settled on his face. Thank god for his obliging shades. 

“Oh, hello there, dear. I didn’t hear you come in,” Aziraphale said, his previously radiant smile slanting a little. “You almost missed us.”

Crowley saw a twitch in Gabriel’s jaw, before he extended a hand in Crowley’s direction, the smile on his face all teeth, making him look like a sharp-dressed shark. “Hello, Anthony, I think we started off on the wrong foot last night," he said with booming confidence. Crowley could hear his own internal screeching; he hated to be called Anthony.  _ Poncy bastard _ .

It took Crowley the tick of a second to weigh the possibility of leaving him with his hand hanging in the air like a moron, before deciding that that level of pettiness would definitely leave  _ him _ looking like a moron in Aziraphale’s eyes. And he certainly didn't want to risk that. “Hey. Gabriel, right?” he said, grasping the hand offered in a vice-like grip and being met in earnest. “Yeah. Sorry about yesterday. Work had me all fucked up.” He presented a grin that curled the corners of his mouth into something absurd. 

“It’s fine, we've all been there," Gabriel said dismissively, taking Aziraphale’s hand in one of his and eliciting a wave of untamed ire in Crowley. “If you’ll excuse us, we were on our way out. There’s a play Aziraphale has been dying to see.”

“Ah, yeah, sure, ngh. Fine.” He placed his satchel on the floor. He could leave things as they were, having cleared the air enough to breath again…, or he could walk the last mile. Two heartbeats, a glance over at Aziraphale. Last mile it was. “Hey, Angel, can I talk to you for a sec? Won’t be long. Promise.”

Aziraphale left Gabriel tying his ridiculous purple scarf and went to Crowley, wringing his hands. "Is it something wrong?," he asked, still slightly apprehensive. 

The fact that Aziraphale,  _ his _ Aziraphale, felt uneasy talking to him made Crowley feel a bit out of sorts. He scraped his last shred of courage from the walls inside him and placed the bag on the counter. "No, no, I just... I wanted to say sorry to you too, Angel. I, er, I was an arse and I don't want you to think for a sec I'm not happy for you and eh..." He made some loop-like gesture towards the door. 

"Gabriel," Aziraphale interjected.

"Right. Yeah. That." He shrugged, pushing the paper bag in Aziraphale's direction. "Hope you enjoy my apology."

Aziraphale opened the bag and his eyes twinkled with mirth, his lips curling in a soft smile. "Oh, Crowley, you shouldn't have."

"No, no, I insist. ‘S the least I can do, you know? I mean, we're friends, so… "

Aziraphale's smile dimmed. "Right. Thank you, dear boy." 

A slab of silence fell over them, broken by Gabriel just when it was starting to smother Crowley's nerves. "C'mon, Aziraphale, it's getting late!"

"Ah, yes, yes. Terribly sorry, dearest," Aziraphale said. He turned to Crowley, "Would you be a dear and store this in the refrigerator?" He said apologetically, signaling the cake. "Gabriel and I are having dinner before the play… "

Crowley masked his disappointment with a feigned nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, sure. No problemo. Got you, Angel." 

Aziraphale and Gabriel left, and Crowley stood in the middle of his flat feeling like a tit and wondering where the simmering rage pulsing in his veins was even coming from.

* * *

A few hours and movies later, with a carton of ice cream on the coffee table, and when it was clear Bridget Jones's problems weren't snagging his attention at all, he dug up his phone and texted Anathema.

_ 'hey, u up? _ '

The reply took only a few seconds.

_ 'yep _ .  _ Sup? _ '

_ 'can u talk rn _ ?'

_ 'yeah. Just waiting for Newt to come home _ .'

Crowley then dialed, and waited far longer than he expected, given that they'd been just texting.

"That took a while," he said when she picked up. He took a spoon of ice cream and licked it clean. 

"I should change my ringtone," Anathema said, the words working around the distinct crunch of some snack. "I always get too caught up. Anyway, what's wrong?"

"Nothin's wrong, why'd you think somethin's wrong?" Crowley scrunched up his nose. The twitchy edge was too obvious for Anathema to ignore it he was sure. 

"Ah, I didn’t? But now I kinda do? What's got into you?"

Crowley sighed. "It's... nothing, really."

"So, you called me on a weekday, close to one in the morning because... nothing? I'm watching Queer Eye, dude."

"Didn't think I needed a reason to talk to my favourite cousin."

"Flattery will get you no-" Anathema pulled away from the phone. Crowley heard the distinctive muffle of the bar. " _ Oh, yes, yes! Pick the pretty one, the pretty one! Meh. Too late."  _ Another shift of the phone. "Anyway, you were lying?"

"I wasn't! I'm just… "

"Spit it out, man."

Crowley groaned, and stretched on the couch. He hadn't thought this through, actually, so it was a bit difficult to fish the right words from the barrel of non-commital grunts and sardonic laughs that formed his usual language repertoire. How he could tell her he was a fucking prick?

"D'you think I'm awful?" he blurted out.

"Nah, I think you're pretty great. Why do you ask?"

"Ugh. Anny, I think I'm an homophobic twat." 

A pause. "What?"

Crowley rolled on his stomach, gaze blindly following Mark Darcy on the telly. "It's just... You know Aziraphale right?"

"Your roommate, yeah. What about him?"

"Well, he's dating this wanker. Gabriel's the name."

"Is he awful? This Gabriel person, I mean.

"Yes. No. I don't know, really. Haven't even talked to him, but he seems like a tosser."

"And?"

"And the thing is, I thought I was super okay with Aziraphale having a boyfriend, but when he introduced him to me I was a right-on bastard." Crowley shifted position, tossing his legs over the back of the sofa, his head dangling over the side. "I've been seething the entire week they've been together, and today I saw them holding hands and I just wanted to run for the hills, you know?"

"Mmm."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A crunch came through the line before Anathema answered. "I'm thinking, okay? It's not as if I have all the knowledge of the universe stashed in my purse."

"I'm saving that for the future," Crowley chuckled. 

"Shut up. Look. Aziraphale has been your only friend for months, right?"

"Right."

"You two have shared a lot, and maybe this is you resenting the fact he's not there for you like he was before. Because of this Gabriel dude."

Crowley slithered into an even more uncomfortable position. "Mmm. Go on."

"And maybe that's why you hate him so much. But, baby, Aziraphale's still your friend. What you need to do is support him, and maybe find other people to connect with. Go out, find someone. Maybe not for a relationship but just to be friends. I bet that if you have more people in your life, you'll feel better about Aziraphale and Gabriel being an item."

"I think you're on to something here."

Crowley heard the thud of a door closing through the line. "Glad to be of service, and now I gotta go. Newt's here. But think about what I told you, okay? And call me if you need anything."

"Okay _ ,  _ yeah, yeah, you're right, Anny. Thanks a lot, and say hi to Newt from me. _ Ciao. _ "

A stifled laugh. "Will do. Bye, dork."

He turned off the telly.

Maybe Anathema was right. Only God knew why, but his cousin had a borderline-clairvoyant insight when it came to assessing other people's business. Crowley trusted her judgement more than anyone else's regarding people. He considered his situation, and the answers were there, glaringly obvious before him. Besides Aziraphale, his only contact with the outside world since Lillith had come in the form of coffee with a side of lurid office gossip with Beelz and Dagon, the co-workers he almost -  _ almost _ \- liked. He didn't do clubs, pubs, or any other place where you could find yourself among throngs of people. Perhaps he could do as Anathema advised and accept one of the weekly office-wide invitations from Hastur, the HR bloke, for some beers over fish and chips. That didn't sound too dreadful.

He was still considering his limited options, staring at a particularly alluring spot on the ceiling, when he heard the jingle of keys, some muffled voices, and the distinct sound of a door opening and shutting. For a long, grisly moment he thought he was going to see Gabriel strolling in beside Aziraphale, but soon it became evident that he was coming home alone. 

"Hello, dear."

Something inside Crowley's gut fluttered oddly at his voice. "Hey, Angel, how was the play?"

"It was yet another historically inaccurate rendition of Hamlet." Aziraphale divested himself of his coat and hung it neatly near the door. "Not bad, really, but didn't exactly meet my expectations."

"Of course not, you fussy bastard," Crowley said with a smile. "God forbid people don't know what type of under linen was used in the 17th century!"

"Well, excuse me. I do have standards," Aziraphale said, primly. 

"’Course you do."

Aziraphale walked to the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator contents, extracting the  _ Sachertorte _ . 

Crowley watched him grab a fork and begin attacking the container with eager hands. Aziraphale eating from a container. That was new. "I thought you had dinner just a few hours ago," he said. 

Aziraphale's cheeks blushed pink, and he stopped with the fork mid-bite. "Ah, uhm, yes. But we got there late, so I had to cut back a little on the number of courses."

He looked almost guilty, as if Crowley had unearthed a big, uncomfortable secret. The way his grey-blue eyes dimmed tugged at the seams of Crowley's heart. 

"Tell you what," Crowley said, trying to lift Aziraphale's sinking mood. "Come here with your container and I'll trade you some of this, er..." he glanced at the carton of ice cream still in front of him, "Chocomint, for a forkful of your torte."

Aziraphale made his way to the living room, smiling again. "Fine." He folded himself on the couch, and suddenly Crowley was too aware of the swath of contact from their knees up their thighs, and the heat radiating through Aziraphale's khakis and his own black joggers, almost searing his skin. He struggled to get hold of a thought, something, anything; his brain was muzzy as never before. This was absolutely bizarre. Aziraphale was looking at the ice cream, eyes under soft lids, while the moonlight seeping through the window painted a silvery strip over the bridge of his freckle-dusted nose. As in a trance, Crowley grabbed his spoon and scooped up a generous amount of ice cream, slowly offering it out.

The moment Aziraphale leaned forward and his lips closed around the spoon, Crowley felt a tingling sensation radiating from his fingertips and up his arms. A ripple of heat cracked through him as he watched Aziraphale moaning around the cool mouthful. Crowley thought he’d tackled the feeling of his cheeks warming up at those garbled noises, those whimpers at bites chock full of flavor, but now he found himself floundering. The trip and skip of his heart told him something was terribly different this time. 

"Uhm. Absolutely sinful, my dear," Aziraphale said, finally. "The combination is superb. And I believe an exchange is in order."

Crowley struggled, forging through. "Didn't think you really wanted to share your morsel. It's alright if you don't."

"Nonsense. I gave you my word," and with that he took a piece of his cake and presented it to Crowley. 

Crowley hesitated for the  _ tick tick _ of a second on the clock, but he finally closed his lips around the offered piece. The chocolate exploded in his mouth, every space sparking with the sweetness of the apricot jam and the softness of the cake. Crowley felt a bit of icing dangling dangerously on his bottom lip and flicked his tongue, not to miss a thing.

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes, so he wrenched them open once he’d swallowed.

Aziraphale was looking at him, a flush spreading from his cheeks in a mottle down his neck. His lips were parted, and he seemed a bit breathless, something Crowley couldn't quite name rising in the blue of his eyes.

Aziraphale sprung away, violently. "Look at the time! Better go to bed. Work day tomorrow. Sleep well, dear." He rushed to his room in a whirlwind of cream and shut the door with a loud bang.

_ What the fuck was tha _ t?

* * *

When Crowley finally went to bed, in a room partially lit by beams from the streetlights, he drifted off under the swish of passing cars and the muffled hubbub of a city that never rested. Shadows wove around the edges of his sleep-addled brain. He felt strong, soft hands skimming over his skin. Saw a sapphire spark of joy in soft eyes. Heard the rustle of the pages of old books. Smelled the tang of a sharp cologne. Tasted a deep, chocolate kiss, heavy on his tongue. 

A moan in the empty space. 

Crowley woke up, hard in his trousers, his hands clammy, and his rust-red hair falling in disarray over his pillow. 

_ What an odd dream, indeed.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support! The chapter count grew by one because I had to make some adjustments, but that's it. Only 2 chapters to go! XOXO  
> And as always, big thanks to HatKnitter! You're truly amazing!!

This was a nightmare, and then some. 

Crowley had agreed to finally go with the office gang for beers at Heaven’s, a posh establishment near his work that had just opened up. He was trying hard to follow Anathema’s advice, and to disregard the annoying remarks of his brain regarding the company. What could he possibly lose? Seemed low-risk enough. All too soon it was glaringly obvious how unrealistic his expectations had been. 

It became apparent that Hastur maintained an estranged relationship with soap and related products, which was even more distracting considering he was sitting alarmingly close to Crowley.

Ligur was sprawled on a chair, probably collecting information to use as leverage against the rest of them, while going at Candy Crush with the music on and opting to respond to the more than angry looks of the rest of the patrons with a smug smile. 

Dagon was only interested in the girls at the table next to them, and Beelzebub made it painstakingly clear that their complete attention belonged to their Kindle.

Clearly a fun bunch. 

Crowley tried to shoot apologetic smiles to the woman he assumed was the floor manager, a woman with irritation written all over her face. But it was obvious that they were in grave danger of being thrown out with no possibility of return. Probably in the next half hour, tops.

“Oi! This tastes like piss,” Hastur said, quite loudly, making their table the focal point of the entire place for several unpleasant seconds. “And not even the good kind.

“Is there a good kind?” Crowley asked. He rubbed his temple with a bony forefinger, trying very hard to  _ bond _ . 

“Well, yeah, you know,” Hastur grumbled, “the kind you make when you’re not drinking this shit that tastes like piss.”

“I’m starving! Where’s the fucking fish?” Dagon growled, setting their glass on the table a tad too strongly. “Ligur, go and ask them, will ya?”

“Fuck off, do it yourself,” Ligur huffed, without sparing a glance from his phone. 

Soon, their food arrived and Crowley had to deal with Hastur’s moping about the soggy state of the fries, then deciding it was enough of an affront to ask for the manager, a burly bloke called Sandalphon. 

It all went downhill from there. 

Turns out customers are not always right, and half an hour later they were all unceremoniously tossed out into the street after Hastur called the owner, some Michael person, a wanker.

_ Fuck _ . Crowley just wanted to go home. 

The trip on the Tube was long and boring. He’d had a decent enough time, but it was impossible to connect with those people. Everyone seemed so brash, so bitter, so non-interesting. So not-Aziraphale. 

His heart leapt, beating entirely too fast. He really missed him. 

On the bright side, he was about to arrive home and could maybe coax Aziraphale to watch some of his old classics (which Crowley secretly loved) and have a nice evening. Maybe with some take-out from their favourite sushi place. Perhaps even tempt him into some wine, and to resume their long-winded talks. 

When he reached the foyer of his building, he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He considered taking the stairs, in lieu of the slow dragging of the lift. But that was probably not a good idea, he decided, given they lived on the ninth floor and, at forty-five, his calves would go into riot later. 

Once at the door of his flat, he fumbled with the keys and let himself in. There was some music wafting from the living room, soft and mellow, a raspy voice breaking lyrics that became clearer as Crowley got closer. Every word, every note, fell like chunks of ice and pooled in his stomach. 

And there on the couch with memories of chocolate and ice cream, was Aziraphale. Kissing Gabriel. 

It was wrong. Sacrilegious, somehow. 

Crowley felt a wave of nausea, a cold dread creeping from the nape of his neck down his back, crawling around his heart, and sinking steel-sharp pins into it. His head spun like it had been thrown in a blender. Pulsing. Pounding. 

He could've been standing there for days, months, seconds, hours, the stretch of time an inconsequential loop measured only by the growing ache taking more and more room inside him. There was a rush of air from an open window swishing through the room, setting the curls of fire of a few lit candles guttering out violently.

His emotions tilted over the edge.

Crowley let go of his satchel, which fell with a thud onto the carpeted floor. 

Aziraphale turned, eyes glassy, staring directly into his shades, the cord of an emotion Crowley couldn't quite place pulling at his lips. 

"Oh! H-Hello there, Crowley," Aziraphale stammered. Crowley's breath was caught somewhere around his throat and his lungs, his stomach knotting in ribbons. "We didn't want to bother you."

_ Bother _ ?

_ Ah shit _ . _ They’d thought he was home.  _

He probably looked like an ogling idiot, standing there, all shell-shocked. As if he hadn't seen two people kissing before. He wondered if his face was contorting in the same way he felt his insides twisting. 

"Nah-ah, was just on my way out. Big date, I have. Me. Yep." Crowley forced his feet to unnail and take him to the door with wobbly strides. " _ Ciao _ ."

He waved with some sort of loose flick of his wrist, aiming for nonchalance and failing by a mile. He may have heard Gabriel saying something, but the words reached his ears chopped and through a load of static.

When he hit the street with muddled footfalls, he realized there were tears prickling his eyes behind his shades, and the air failed to reach his lungs. He bent over the outer wall of his building, resting on a hand for support, and focused on taking a gulp of the belching waves of the smog of central London. Better. But not quite good. 

Overreaction was an understatement. How in Hell was he supposed to keep on living with Aziraphale as a roommate if he couldn't even see him kiss his partner?

The lump in his throat grew when his brain dredged up the kiss, zooming in with painstaking attention to detail. Gabriel's mouth on Aziraphale's. Gabriel's hands cupping Aziraphale's jaw, caressing his shoulder. 

He fought the impulse to retch.

This was a disaster.

Crowley plucked his phone out of his overly tight jeans and sent a text to Anathema.

_ 'SOS ARMAGEDDON _ .'

His phone rang a second later.

"Hey! Are you alright? Where should I go to pay the bail?" 

"I'm fine! No weird shit. Just, just need to talk."

An exaggerated huff. "Holy shit, man! You just scared the bejeezus out of me! Armageddon is for emergencies only, you git! I thought you were about to fucking die!"

Crowley let out a bitter laugh. "Wouldn't rule that one out yet."

"What's going on? Are you alright?" Anathema asked, her voice slightly strained.

"Can we meet? Preferably in a place with extraordinary amounts of alcohol?" 

"Yeah. Sure, how about Shadwell's?"

"Near Piccadilly, isn't it?"

"That's the one."

"Yeah. Fine. See you in - let me check - yeah, see you in thirty."

Half an hour later, he was sitting at one of the tables of the establishment with a double bourbon already in his fidgety hands. The dizzying haze had cleared, if only slightly, but enough to allow him to chain one thought after another. 

"Hey!" Anathema plopped down next to him and dragged him into a very tight embrace, making him gasp a little. She then clasped his shoulders, narrowing her eyes as if inspecting him for injuries. "You're alright, so... what the hell is going on?"

Crowley raked his fingers through his hair, destroying his bun in the process. "I don't know! I'm... I'm losing my fucking mind! I've been nothing but an absolute tosser and today…  _ Fuck _ ! Today just tops it all, honestly. I don't think… " The words died in a puff as he collapsed against the couch like a shabby puppet set loose of its strings. "Oh, fuck. Oh,  _ fuck _ ! Aziraphale is going to hate me!" he said, burying his head in his arms.

"I know you think you're making a lot of sense,” she said, patting his head, “but you're not. Seriously. Can we go back to the beginning? What the hell happened?"

Crowley levered himself up, and took a pitiful sip from his glass. "Okay. Fine. You're right." He took a deep breath. "The thing is, I told you all about Aziraphale, right?"

"Right," Anathema said, signaling a waitress for a drink. She was apparently quite well known here, as the only thing she had to do was raise her hand. 

"So, today I came back from  _ fraternizing _ with the lot from the office."

"Oh, how was that?"

"Vomitive, but not the point. The point is, when I got back to the flat, Aziraphale was there" Crowley groaned "kissing fucking Gabriel."  _ In the middle of my bloody memories of us _ , he thought, and it burned like acid.

A waitress left a pink cocktail in front of Anathema, and she took a sip before spurring him on, "...and?"

"And... and I lost it!" Crowley’s head sagged forward, strands of red hair falling out of his bun, before glancing up Anathema. "I mean I didn't  _ lose _ it, lose it. Didn't do anything stupid but  _ ngh _ ! I felt like shit. Like absolute  _ shit _ ! Quality rubbish, me, Anthony J. Crowley."

Anathema raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"What do I... Anny, please!" he yelped and there was a hint of mania grating beneath his words. "I mean that the second I saw them I felt positively ill. Completely out of sorts. As if my lunch were about to be splattered on the floor. That kind of bad! Is that enough meaning for you?"

Crowley didn't know what he had been expecting from airing the completely tangled mess in his head, but it certainly wasn't a laugh, carefree and joyful as anything. Anathema was looking at him as if there was an inside joke at his expense that she was very much enjoying. It was outrageous. 

Crowley crumpled a napkin and tossed it at her face, but she swatted it away with a graceful flick of her hand. “Could you stop with that and help me, you loon?” he asked. “What’s got into you?”

Her laugh ebbed away slowly, and then she asked, “Crowley, could you please look around us for a sec?”

“What for?”

“Entertain me."

"Is this some of your witchy stuff? I've told you I don't..."

"Nah ah. Just do it, you big baby."

"Ugh. Fine. Don't see the point, though."

He cast about the dim lit bar, gaze roving over the stools, the patrons, the friendly barkeep with the red wig and broad smile. 

He finally turned to Anathema. “Okay, done. Now what?”

Anathema's eyes twinkled with amusement behind her glasses. “Didn’t you see that couple by the door?” He followed her words and turned to see two men holding hands, taking a selfie. “Or the other one at the back?” Crowley glanced there, where two men were kissing in a tender moment. 

Two seconds elapsed. He felt absolutely nothing. 

His eyes opened wider, a glassy feeling encasing him for a moment that stretched too long. “Wh-"

“Oh, baby. Oh, you poor idiot, you,” she said, laughing, taking off her glasses to wipe the tears spilling from the corner of her eyes. “You really have it bad.”

“Have what bad?” he asked, desperation mixed with annoyance.

Anathema took a few deep breaths to steady herself and extended her hands, grasping his. "I think, my dear idiot, that you’re in love.”

The statement was so far out of the scope of what Crowley had been expecting that he blinked a few times, his jaw falling a little. 

“ _ What _ ?”

“That what you think is you being a prejudiced ass is just pure, simple jealousy, my man,” she said, grinning. 

“But I’m… ”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re straight. But are you, really?”

The knee-jerk reaction careened along his tongue, but crashed before it could escape. He had never considered it, actually. He’d just gone with the flow of whoever and whatever tickled his fancy at any given time.

A memory from years ago filtered to the forefront of his brain, and then another, and a different one. Suddenly he had a whole pile of proof hitting him hard and disproving his assertion. Apparently he’d been heedless of the knowledge, storing it away as quaint occurrences, even if more than one had scratched the lines of propriety. Especially on some lonely nights.

And now he... he... and Aziraphale...

_ Oh, what a relief. _

_ But then... _

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, more like bisexual, I’d say,” Anathema said, nonchalantly.

“But that doesn’t solve anything," he spluttered. "I'm still quite royally fucked!” 

“Why do you say that?”

“Er, I don't know, perhaps it’s that little detail that he’s in love with that bastard, and there’s nothing I can do about it?" Crowley sneered. "C'mon, Anny, keep up!" The initial shock was starting to wear off under the onslaught of pain and anger, and all he wanted to do was drink his weight in bourbon and let himself collapse on the nearest  _ nappable _ surface. 

Anathema bit a nail, head cocked to the side, considering. “You could always tell him.”

“Have you lost your marbles?” he scoffed, his brows leaping to his hairline.

“Look. You have a situation on your hands, if you’re going to keep living with the poor man. You two are friends, and friends support each other. If you don’t plan to tell him, then you’ve got to come up with something to explain why you’re throwing murderous glares at his boyfriend.”

“ _ Argh _ ! This is a disaster.”

“I really believe honesty is the best policy,” Anathema said seriously. “Maybe try to warm him up to the idea a little. I mean, especially if he believes you’re straight, it’s going to be a big blow for him. So, take him to have dinner or something, and when you believe he’s somehow accepted there’s a change in you, just... tell him.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I’d rather fling myself off a cliff.”

“Why do you have to be so dramatic?” she asked, shaking her head. "I mean, if you keep acting like you have food poisoning every time you see them, he's going to find out about your little crush, eventually."

“A crush? What am I, fourteen?"

“You're certainly acting like it.” Anathema finished her drink and signaled the waitress for another. “You can always say nothing. Just see what happens. Now that you know what you’re actually dealing with, maybe you can control it a little better, or something?”

Crowley quaffed the last of his drink, parsing her words. It was… It was rather  _ a lot _ to take in, and yet it felt oddly satisfying, like the piece of a puzzle finally slotting into the right spot. It wasn't a solution, not by a long shot. But being able to understand the criss-cross of his thoughts somehow managed to ease his inner struggle.

Anathema, however, warned him not to get truly sloshed -  _ work day, dude, that's non-negotiable _ \- so he settled for one more bourbon before heading home.

* * *

The flat was quiet, awfully empty, Aziraphale probably out with… 

Out. Busy. 

Crowley stalked to his room and brushed his teeth. Then he haphazardly shucked off his jacket and trousers without giving it much thought. He flopped on the bed in his shirt and boxers and slid under the deep blue covers, closing his eyes, angling his too-long limbs.

Everything felt… lighter, somehow. Like he was just floating, unmoored, despite the hopelessness that shrouded him. Of course he loved Aziraphale. How could he have been so blind? How could he have missed the signs? Aziraphale was everything Crowley could’ve ever imagined wanting in a partner. He  _ was _ \- and now he knew it - everything he truly wanted. He’d tumbled around London arm in arm with the love of his life, unaware -  _ what a daft bugger he’d been  _ -, falling arse over tip in a seamless spiral, feeling exhilarated. Alive. Crowley was thrown back to those months, to just a few weeks ago, remembering the sensation of joy like warm sunshine soaring in his veins whenever Aziraphale was close. Time wasted. Crowley could’ve kicked himself in the arse; he’d been already unfairly lucky.

He blew out the air in his lungs in an exaggerated puff. 

Perhaps he'd known all along and had blocked the knowledge to avoid the heartbreak.  _ Aziraphale was so out of his league. _ His brain decided to conjure up the evidence, wrenching a sealed box open, sending the bits and pieces of hundreds and thousands of images in a swirl of scattering chaos. Myriad details at his beck and call. The soft pink of Aziraphale’s lips whistling as he read, the inherent grace of that pert, upturned nose, the sheer warmth of those blue eyes, alight in wonder. 

Crowley shifted under the sheets. 

And there was also the very  _ evident _ fact of how appallingly  _ attractive _ Aziraphale was. Hands with thick fingers tapping over a mantle, the broad plane of his back pulling the fabric of a shirt while he reached for a book, the slope of his throat bobbing as he gulped, the curve of his arse. Crowley flicked his tongue idly over his lips, heart beating under every inch of his skin. Those arms. 

_ Christ _ , his room was suddenly several degrees hotter. 

Crowley’s hand started moving, searching, sliding over his boxers.  _ Fuck _ . He was hard. He palmed his erection, and his hips bucked upwards of their own accord. His mind, ever helpful, bombarded him with images of Aziraphale; fair game, he supposed. Memories skidding off and veering into fantasies. A night spent on the couch, where suddenly Aziraphale would pull him in for a kiss, tongue deep in Crowley's mouth. 

He found his cock and clasped the base with a sense of urgency. Aziraphale would praise him -  _ look how gorgeous you are, darling _ ,  _ look how hard you are for me. _

"Always for you, Angel," Crowley groaned, the coil of want unraveling and radiating to both ends of his body.

He licked his palm and squeezed his cock, smearing the droplets of precum with his thumb over the swollen head. He knocked his head back on the pillow and sunk his teeth into his lip. He wanted to taste Aziraphale badly, to press closer, and pull  _ in _ , until they were sharing the same air. He wanted to feel the weight of Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, swipe the ridge with his tongue, leaving him wet and wanting and begging to come down Crowley's throat. Crowley stroked himself, rolling his hips and thrusting harder into his fist. He'd swallow Aziraphale down to the base.  _ Fuck _ , he’d let his angel fuck his face if he wanted.

_Oh, dear, your mouth feels wonderful, so tight, so hot and wet._ _Look how well you take me. Perfect. Just perfect, my Crowley._

Crowley took a hand to his hair and wove strands through his fingers, pulling until the pain flared. Aziraphale would do the same, pushing himself further down Crowley's throat until he could feel the tapering head hitting the back. His mouth full of cock, straining at the sides. 

"Fuck my face, Angel. Use me.  _ Fuck _ ! Wreck me," he cried out, starving. 

He jerked himself frantically, eyes closed, feeling the pressure of his orgasm building rapidly. He wasn't going to last. Aziraphale would've forgone any sense of discretion, moaning Crowley's name, thrusting almost brutally amidst the gags and spit sliding from Crowley's mouth.

Crowley let go of his hair and sucked three fingers all the way down to his knuckles, thrusting into his own mouth, feeling his own saliva dribbling from the corner of his lips. The moan that bounced off the walls was broken. Shattered like glass. 

_ I’m close, darling, so close. I'm going to come in your mouth and you're going to swallow it all, dear. _

Crowley's wrist twisted in the upthrust, and he cried out, gagging around his fingers as he came, stripes of white over his hand and stomach. 

It took him several minutes to descend from the heights of his climax. The sheer intensity of it, pulsing in his bones, his temples, washing over him like a tide. 

_ Oh, fuck _ . He needed Aziraphale badly; to kiss him, to feel him, to touch the warmth of his skin. To watch him wake up to late breakfasts and go to sleep late at night, clasping handfuls of the ridiculous tartan pyjamas he insisted on wearing.

_ Sleep well, my dear _ , Aziraphale would say.

_ Good night, love,  _ Crowley would wish, and would drift off under that blue, keen, warm gaze.

And then reality crashed like glass over his head, sending its splinters to burrow into his skin.

_ Gabriel.  _ Who was very real, and very present, and a very tangible dread in Crowley’s mind. 

Crowley groaned again, burying every sliver and wisp of bitter pain in the fluff of his pillow. The blood pumping through him settled on his temples.  _ Fuck, it hurt _ . 

He tried to rein in his breathing, feeling almost lightheaded; tried to sidestep the godawful ache lodged under his breastbone.  _ Breathe, just breathe _ . In through the nose, out through the mouth. Once, Twice.  _ It was fine _ . Everything was fine. 

He could keep on loving Aziraphale through the cracks of his heart, through every thread of allowed familiarity. Crowley could,  _ would _ care for Aziraphale from afar, silently. 

And perhaps, just perhaps, at some point he could convince his heart to let go of that failed hope. 

He bit his lip. Rotten luck, this luck of his. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go that won't take more than two days at most! 
> 
> As always big thanks to [HatKnitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) who's still generously betaing this!

Morning presented Crowley with the sticky mess on his stomach as a reminder of the previous night, and the hollow ache of his resolution. The sun was already high, slicing through the blinds, catching on the steel windowsill, and under its unmerciful light everything seemed even more wretched than the day before. Jagged edges surrounded an awful silence inside, and guilt flapped about in his chest. 

He heaved a deep sigh and glanced at his alarm clock.

_ 9:00 a.m. _

"Fuck!"

A shave-and-a-haircut knock on the door. "Crowley?"

"Yeah, Angel?" 

"Are you alright? It's rather late."

"Yeahhh. Just... _ngh_. I'm going to call in sick." He’d never missed a work day in the two and more years at Gehenna Inc., so he could probably get a pass this one time without too many complaints from Beelzebub. Even trying his _best_ \- meaning throwing himself headlong out of bed, donning yesterday’s clothes, and miraculously catching an available taxi - getting to the office in time was just not feasible. 

"Oh.” Crowley could practically hear the concern etching itself in Aziraphale’s words. “Are you ill, my dear?"

"Nah. Just slept late,” he said, as he dashed to the bathroom and shed his sticky shirt and boxers, throwing them in the hamper. “I'm going to take a shower." 

"Jolly good.” A pause. "If you want… " 

The words were drowned under the gush of water when Crowley turned on the tap.

"What's that?" Crowley yelped. 

"If you want, we can have breakfast together," Aziraphale said louder, words almost stumbling against each other. "If you're amenable, that is. No need to feel obligated."

Crowley’s stomach flip-flopped softly. "I'd love that!" Crowley said, with such fervor that he scrunched up his face, punching himself internally for the unbarred enthusiasm. "Tell you what, Angel," he said, bridling his eagerness, "let's go to that place you like so much, the one with the, er, the apfelstrudel?"

"Eden's?"

"That's the one. What do you say?"

A pause. "That sounds delightful," Aziraphale said, finally. 

"Great! My treat. Will be ready in a tick, okay?"

"Will do."

Then the  _ tap, tap, tap _ of the familiar Oxfords walking away, and Crowley slumped against the bathroom door feeling the adrenaline tingling at his palms, his temples, the tips of his fingers. He hurried to get ready.

Fifteen minutes later he was standing by the door of their flat, trying to look his best with rehearsed carelessness, skinny black jeans, black shirt and jacket, hair loose. A nonchalant cock of his hip. 

_ Play it cool _ .  _ Don't make a fool of yourself. _

Which proved to be awfully difficult the moment Aziraphale stepped into his line of sight. 

Aziraphale was in his usual attire but,  _ god _ , he looked gorgeous. Crowley was a little stunned for a few seconds and had to bite the inside of his cheek to ground himself. This was doing nothing to keep his inconvenient  _ crush _ (cue Anathema’s voice, and Crowley groaned inwardly) in check; it felt more like adding a fuckton of gasoline to an already roaring fire. Crowley wanted to drown in the sight of that face every day, every hour, as long as Aziraphale would let him.

And… that was the downside, wasn’t it? Dissapointment roiled in his stomach at the knowledge that those flimsy, stupid, appaling hopes were not for him to have. He swallowed around the lump lodged in his throat and pasted a smile on his face. 

"Ready?" he finally asked. 

"Quite."

"Let's go, then."

Once at the pleasant and comfortable patisserie, they sat at a table near the back. Crowley left the ordering to Aziraphale, while he took his sunglasses off and put them away in his jacket pocket.

"Just toast and coffee for me. Choose whatever you want," he said, smiling.

"Oh, you're so very kind, dear." Aziraphale beamed at that and wiggled a bit in his seat. "Everything looks positively scrummy, it's so hard to choose just one."

"Then pick one of each, or several," Crowley said signaling the waitress. "C'mon, Angel, go wild."

Aziraphale wrung his hands, blushing suddenly. "Yes, well," he said, patting at his midriff with an apologetical look, "I'm trying to cut down a bit on the food… "

"Why in the name of  _ Lucifer _ would you want to do that? Health? Angel, are you okay?"

"Oh, yes, yes quite, and no, not health related at all." Aziraphale tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. "Well, you see. It's been called to my attention that I  _ am,  _ er _ , _ rather soft… "

"There's nothing wrong with that. You're perfect just the way you are," Crowley cut in, realizing his words a second too late, and deciding he didn’t care in the slightest if he gave himself away. "Listen, Angel. Whatever you choose to do, do it because you think that's best for you. Because  _ you _ want it, not for anyone else. So, is one piece of pastry all you really want?" 

Aziraphale's cheeks were bright pink, a gamut of emotions flickering in his grey-blue eyes. "Uhm. Perhaps not?"

"Well, then, there you go."

When the waitress arrived, Aziraphale ordered two slices of strudel, a piece of Bakewell tart, and a cup of cocoa for himself, plus coffee and toast with jam for Crowley.

By the time the food came, Aziraphale was once again in an excellent mood. Crowley's heart thrummed at an odd pace in his chest, his entire body aching for the slip of a touch. His hand now rested on the table, inches away from Aziraphale's, so close and yet so infinitely far away, the space pulsing and fanning out inescapably.

"How are you, Angel?" Crowley asked. "We haven't had much time to talk recently."

Aziraphale cut a piece of his strudel. "I'm quite all right, dear. Busy with the shop, trying my best to deter annoying customers from buying things they don’t need. You know how that is." He took the bite, and the filthy moan that resulted boomed within Crowley. He bit his toast to force his thoughts to ground. His cock twitched in his pants.  _ Fuck, too late.  _

"Yeah, I bet," he powered through, shifting his legs to ease the strain, "but I mean, personally. I feel I haven't talked to you in ages."

"Oh, don't be silly, we had lunch two weeks ago."

"It's been two weeks? Gosh, that's a lot of time."

"It rather feels like it, doesn’t it?"

"Yeah." Crowley took a sip of his coffee. It’d felt more like a year or two. "So, how are you? How's everything going with Gabriel?" He asked, willing himself to hide the scowl he felt about to pop on his face. 

"Good. Quite acceptable, I'd say," Aziraphale said primly. 

Crowley frowned. "C’mon, angel. Acceptable? Is that, what, your Yelp review?"

“My what? I truly don’t understand what you mean,” Aziraphale said, pursing his lips. “Acceptable is quite an adequate word.”

“Oh yeah. Acceptable. The one word that never fails to appear in every Hallmark movie.”

“Well, life isn’t a Hallmark movie, is it?” Aziraphale bristled. 

Crowley knew he ought to drop it. He felt Aziraphale’s hackles rising, quite unmistakably, but the need to know hung heavy in his head; the need to know whether Aziraphale was actually content. “Are you happy?” Crowley asked softly. 

"Same as always," Aziraphale said, taking another bite. "I don't think a relationship has the power to change a whole life, really."

“Mmm.” He  _ really _ should drop it. "So the answer's no?"

Aziraphale set his fork down, his lips suddenly in a tight clench. "I don't see how any of that pertains to you, honestly."

Deep down, Crowley knew he deserved the sting of that waspish tone, but the logical ramblings of his brain didn't keep his insides from curling into a painful knot. He hadn't been expecting an easy answer, what with Aziraphale always playing things pretty close to his chest, but this flare-up had just shown him how much they’d drifted apart. It really cut Crowley to the quick.

"Angel, shit… I’m sorry,” he said, placatingly, “I didn’t want to upset you. J-Just wanted to know you were alright, okay?" He took another steady, slow sip of his too-black coffee.

"Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, somewhat plaintively, “I truly don't know what came over me. I guess… I guess… I'm a bit tired, I'm afraid.”

"It's alright, Angel. I shouldn't have asked. That was awfully pushy of me."

"No, no, not at all." Aziraphale placed a hand over his, the contact searing him through. "If anything, I appreciate the concern," he said with a small smile. 

Another bite, another sip, and Crowley's heart pounded so hard it was on the verge of shattering his ribs. 

“So?” Crowley finally managed. 

Aziraphale sighed, removing his hand from Crowley’s. “I can’t complain, really.”

“That’s good,” Crowley said, then, forcing a smile. “Are you going to see him today?”

“Afraid not. He has a big case. He’ll spend all day in court.”

The grin that threatened to break on Crowley’s face had no shame.  _ He _ had no shame. “Not much fun at Old Bailey, I’m sure.”

“Probably not.”

Before Crowley could think of anything to say, Aziraphale butted in. "And how was your date?" he asked, eyes fastened to his plate, apparently quite enraptured with his strudel.

"My what?"

"Your date. Last night?"

It took Crowley a slow second to catch on to his meaning and remember the lie he'd carelessly issued the day before. "Ah, that. Nah. T’was a no-go. Got stood up," he lied, stuffing his mouth with more toast.

"You did?" Aziraphale asked, gleefully, before flustering to achieve a frown and falling short. "That's dreadful," he added. 

Crowley raised a brow and smirked. "Awfully cheerful, are we? If I didn't know you any better I'd say you’re happy I got ditched."

Aziraphale blushed. "Don't be silly. Why would I want that? We're friends, aren't we?"

The words didn't have the right to sting as much as they did, like salt over a particular bloody gash. It was a perfectly innocent assertion, but the intent was clear as water.

"Yeah, that we are," Crowley said, forcing himself to fend off the heartbreak. "So, are you planning to go to work today?"

"Not really," Aziraphale said, attacking his second strudel. "Pepper and Adam are still working on the inventory, so there's not much I can do there."

“How about a movie and take-out for lunch then? I have all day free from the office,” Crowley offered, trying to sound oh, so smooth. “Like old times?”

Aziraphale seemed to consider something, taking too long a time for such a simple question. “Only if I can pick the movie,” he drawled, finally.

“Oh, c’mon!”

“It’s only fair. I still haven’t recovered from... what was it called again?”

“A View to a Kill? Oh, that’s… that was a good movie, Angel, a classic Bond! You’re just sensitive.”

"Me? Hardly," Aziraphale said with a smirk, and Crowley's stomach took a tumble as if he'd missed several steps on a staircase.

“Fine, then. Your choice. I’m going to regret it, I’m sure.”

* * *

They ended up moseying down around St. James’s Park, feeding the ducks and arguing about the inconsistency of today's politics, something neither of them was too prone to examine in detail. When the deluge broke in an instant, harsh pounding of fat drops over the unsuspecting land, Crowley unleashed a cry heavenward at the grey billows, cursing the sky, and Aziraphale doubled over into a full belly laugh. Crowley could’ve stood there getting soaked in his too-tight jeans, raging a temper tantrum a toddler would’ve envied, but Aziraphale’s hand slipped into his and the words took a tumble down his throat. He found himself pulled through the crowd of people running for shelter and shoved into a taxi Aziraphale had caught. He tried to rearrange his face into his usual aloof expression, but it was difficult to slip back into it with the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers laced with his, a seamless flow of plump curves on sharp edges. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, a sheen of sweat dewing his palms, and Crowley thanked the rain for the dampness that masked  _ that _ . 

They reached their flat still hand in hand, and Crowley wrangled to steer his thoughts to something harmless. Something that didn’t make him plunge into assumptions that might be overblown by this simple gesture of support. Something simpler and far more mundane than focusing on the heavy warmth ensconced in his palm. Soon enough they staggered inside, Aziraphale sliding his hand casually away and into his pocket, looking for his phone. The moment evaporated into the air. It was ridiculous, Crowley told himself, being so affected by something so trivial. 

Twenty minutes later they landed on the couch. Crowley flipped through the assorted movie selection Aziraphale had provided him, picked the least terrible option, and sat back to watch Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart bicker in black and white.

“I don’t know why he looks so shocked. Of all the Gin Joints, indeed,” Crowley said, taking a sip of his wine, an arm draped over the backrest of the couch and more buoyant than he'd felt in weeks. “Otherwise the movie would’ve been terribly short.”

Aziraphale choked on a giggle. “You don’t get caught in the fantasy, do you, dear?”

They'd huddled closer during agonizing scenes, Aziraphale’s shoulder now pressed against Crowley’s side, astoundingly fitting into his angular edge; his body was solid and grounding, searing Crowley's skin as if the wool and cotton between them were nothing but gossamer. Crowley wanted to reach, to brush the curve of a barrel chest, the dip of a soft neck, when what he really ought to do was put himself at arm's length. At least an arm. A whole room would've been wiser. Crowley swallowed hard, the feelings queuing up in his throat.

“Oh! This part always gets me,” Aziraphale said, craning the column of his neck and, to Crowley’s dismay, he found himself staring into those blue eyes. Which were far closer than was sensible in his current predicament. Time seemed to have been set loose from whatever laws of physics constricted it. He was fucked; he couldn’t actually plumb the depth of it, but it was clear. Too much, too deep.

_ Fuck. I love him.  _

His mouth felt like sandpaper, his whole body sizzling from his toes to his empty head, absent of thoughts, the supply of words just cut. Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling, half lidded, and Crowley knew he should’ve really eased himself away before his cheeks betrayed him further with the fierce blush he felt pooling there. 

_ Was Aziraphale going to kiss him? _ His lips were slightly parted and Crowley felt the speckled fawn of his breath on his mouth.  _ Fuck _ . His stomach twisted painfully, a golden warmth in his veins. He wanted to kiss him, so very, very badly. Swipe his tongue over those lips, have a taste. Just once.  _ Once _ . 

The credits rolled on the screen. 

Aziraphale pulled away, expression knotted up in all the wrong places. “I had a-a wonderful time, but I think it’s time for me to do some reading.” He practically leaped from his spot, as if chased by all the legions of Hell and, mimicking the motions of a few nights ago, bolted into his room and closed the door. 

* * *

Crowley found himself staring at the ceiling in his room, daydreaming about that moment for the next few weeks, twisting the intentions, warping the outcome. It was a mirage and nothing more. He’d wanted to believe, so he saw things and then slanted them to his own desire, that was all. The ache pulsed there, like a day-old bruise; tamed at dawn, roaring by dusk.

It didn’t get any better at nightfall. He dreamt of Aziraphale more often than not, and by morning he woke up hard in his trousers and feeling everything going blurry around the edges.

It was rather pathetic.

His phone pinged. 

_ 'dinner tonight?' _

Anathema's number.

_ 'sorry. Pass. Knackered here.' _

The dots scintillated for a good five seconds.

_ 'ok.'  _

Small mercies. At least, she wasn't wheedling him to stop the pity party anymore. He was kind of embracing the celebration with gusto. 

His phone pinged once again. 

_ 'one of these days you're gonna have to stop moping _ .'

Yeah, but today was not that day, was it?

Crowley groaned into his pillow. It wasn't as easy as all that; there was no way to send an eviction notice to the jumper-wearing vision of Aziraphale wreaking hell inside him. He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. 

It was so terribly hard. 

The days Gabriel came, he holed up in his room and didn’t leave until he heard the front door close. He'd stopped seeking Aziraphale's company altogether, too frightened he wouldn’t be able to stop himself if there was an encore of that blasted day and he ended up snogging him senseless on the couch or, Hell forbid, on the marble counter like in some cheeky adult film.

Bad. Bad train of thoughts. 

Today was proving to be demanding and difficult in excess. He could hear their voices in the living room, probably getting ready to go out. They never stayed in much. As always, he tried to block the noise, even as it wreathed its way in through his closed door. His bottle of wine was ready on the nightstand. 

He was probably through the second episode of his emotional support show, Golden Girls, when the voices outside got much louder. Despite knowing he shouldn’t meddle, he moved to the door and opened it a crack. Gabriel was upset, that much was clear, but Crowley couldn’t quite make out the words. He shouldn't pry.  _ He should not _ . It was not his place. But when Gabriel went from arguing to actual yelling, Crowley felt his blood boiling. 

He padded barefoot toward the living room, and waited outside of their view.

"I told you it was this week, Aziraphale! And yet you kept ignoring me!"

"I didn't ignore you, dear. Do calm down. I can still attend."

"No, you can't! The suit won't fit you. It's bespoke! I told you, remember? I told you to stop eating that crap but yet you insist! Is it so hard to listen to me just one fucking time?"

Crowley felt the ten-ton load of rage dump on him unceremoniously. A dull hum thudded in his ears. He wanted to grab that prick by the scruff of his neck and hurl him out of his flat. How dare he?  _ Ungrateful fucking arse _ . 

"Now, now. N-no need to be rude. I'm sure if I took the suit to my tailor, he could make the necessary adjustments."

Crowley didn't need to see Aziraphale to know he was having a hard time. His voice was wavering. Crowley could practically see him shaking.

Gabriel laughed. "What for? I'm a major prosecutor, Aziraphale. I need my partner to live up to my expectations. That's the whole point, sunshine, and you—"

Crowley had had enough. He slunk into their line of sight, then on into the room, trying to smother his impulse to punch first and ask questions later.

"Hey mate, whatever you're going to say, stop there," he said, standing between Aziraphale and Gabriel. His ears were buzzing and he fisted his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He turned to Aziraphale. "Do you want him to leave, Angel?"

Aziraphale's cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes wide, and Crowley knew he was a pinch away from shattering.

"This doesn't concern you," Gabriel said, with eery calm.

"It does," Crowley said, amazed at how in-check he was keeping himself. "It does when you're insulting my best friend in my own house, so get out."

"I think... I think it's best if you leave, Gabriel," Aziraphale squeeked out.

Gabriel's gaze jumped from him to Aziraphale, eyes glinting with edged anger. "Oh, how sweet. Your knight in black joggers, is it,  _ Angel? _ ” he said snidely, angling his head to spit the words in Aziraphale's direction. “Let's see how that goes when he finds out you're not thinking of him only as a friend!"

What came after rolled in a haze of swaths of skin and deft movements that almost knocked Crowley off his feet. Aziraphale's fist came out of nowhere. It hit Gabriel squarely in the jaw and, without giving him time to react, he manhandled him across the room, opened the front door and shoved him outside. 

"And I'm calling the police!" Aziraphale shouted. "So don't you dare say I assaulted you, because you broke into my house!"

And with that he threw the door closed in the face of a baffled Gabriel. 

Crowley was too stunned to move.

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale twisted his hands, unwilling to meet Crowley's gaze. "I'm… I'm so sorry you had to witness that."

Crowley gave a few grunts with some vowels thrown in the mix, a sound miles away from anything remotely coherent, his brain refusing to function. 

Seconds seemed to scurry away, time slipping by unnoticed. Crowley blinked a few times, and Aziraphale wasn't there anymore. A loud bang coming from the left was all the evidence Crowley got that he'd dashed to his room.

The heat in the living room was unbearable, stifling and muggy, as if someone had turned the heater up in the last thirty seconds to an inhuman degree. It made Crowley dizzy, his brain all muzzy, words mushed into a curdled mess that was starting to weigh on him.

He could almost hear Gabriel's words pulsing around him, quite loud in his ears, as if the tosser was still in the room, yelling at him through a megaphone.

... _ you're not thinking of him only as a friend... _

What was that supposed to mean? He tumbled forward until he plopped onto a stool at the kitchen island. Was it possible? Then why hadn't Aziraphale said anything?

_ Because he thinks you're straight, you absolute wanker! _

There.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It was good to know he could still rely on his brain to tell him what an idiot he was.

He walked to Aziraphale's door, but hesitated for a split second. The situation was already muddled as it was, but Hell could take him if he was going to let even this sliver of an opportunity slip like dry sand through the cracks of his fingers.

He knocked on the door, unable to crush the flares of hope swirling inside him. "Aziraphale! Angel, please open up!"

Silence.

"Angel, we need to talk!" Another rap on the door. Crowley heard the distinctive shuffling of shoes and his heart went mad. "C'mon, Aziraphale, please!" He pressed his ear to the door and had to catch himself when it opened abruptly.

Aziraphale was finally there.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! Thanks to all of you who read this and my entire heart to the amazing [HatKnitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) . Without her this wouldn't have been possible.

Aziraphale leaned against his just-slammed bedroom door and wrung his hands so hard his fingers flared with pain, but he didn't stop wringing. It helped him to sidetrack his thoughts, push his shame into a deeper part of his brain. Sweat was gathering on his forehead, beading his temples, and he regretted having starched his collar - or given the directions for it - in this particular button-up. The fabric seemed to be constricting his neck like a python, leaving him dizzy and gasping for air. 

“Oh, dear.”

He’d rather made a mess of things, hadn’t he? Aziraphale paced anxiously from the bed to the window, biting his bottom lip as if the poor thing was a chew toy and he an overexcited hound. How Gabriel could’ve possibly found out about, well,  _ that _ ? He had thought himself so subtle, so clever, such a martyr suffering in silence, but everything had apparently been self-deception. The reality, the painful reality, was that it couldn't have been more obvious if he had screamed it from the rooftops and hung banners from the steeples of the city. Okay, that was dramatic and a tad over the top, but several degrees less compromising than moaning a mashed version of Crowley's name against Gabriel's mouth, a  _ faux pas _ if ever there was one. And of course that pillock had heard every syllable of it.

But if Aziraphale rooted through his piles upon piles of denial, the answer was there, staring him dead in the eyes: He was mad as a hatter in love with Crowley. 

How could he not be? The moment Crowley had set a long, sinuous leg into Aziraphale’s flat, his heart had been forfeit. Black jacket, a fiery mane, and sinfully tight inky jeans hugging legs that seemed to go for miles; just that had been enough to liquify Aziraphale’s higher functions. And Crowley was everything Aziraphale was not, and it was alluring. Inviting. He had almost choked on his Earl Grey when he'd seen his new roommate. It had been a cruel trick of fate, too, because soon enough it was quite evident that Crowley wasn't just gorgeous; he was good. He was nice. And caring. And the best friend Aziraphale could've ever wished for...

And he was also as tempting as a forbidden apple, dangling there every day in front of Aziraphale who had been, now he realized it,  _ starving _ . The way those hips sauntered and seemed to defy Grey's Anatomy -  _ the book, not that dastardly show _ \- as he sashayed across their flat, had left Aziraphale discombobulated and a bit breathless on more than one occasion. 

It would've been easier if Crowley had been a fiend, but he'd always been earnest in his camaraderie, tender and altogether too bloody good to Aziraphale, who was all too human and too much of a hedonist to ignore such a smorgasbord of a man. It had been intoxicating to be lavished and fawned over by Crowley, even if, deep down, he knew that what he did at night, evoking memories of almost-touches, had been teeth-grating in its wrongness. Like breaking a vow. 

Crowley was his friend. Friend, and there was the line. In neon and spikes. In a we-may-hold-hands-but-don't-read-too-much-into-it sort of way. And lord, there was a reason Aziraphale owned a bookshop. He rather liked to read into things. 

Like the first time Crowley had called him  _ Angel _ , and Aziraphale had felt positively bowled over by an absurd sense of delight. 

_ "Az-Azir-, it's quite a mouthful, you know? I'm going to call you Angel. I mean, look at you! You look like a bloody angel!" _

He had fallen. Helplessly and hopelessly so. It had felt like a punch to the stomach in its intensity, and in the bitter, harrowing certainty he was thoroughly  _ fucked _ . 

Because Aziraphale had embraced his status as a gay man many years ago and was comfortably settled in his own frumpy, stodgy, pudgy self. There were no surprises there for him, and if Crowley had been gay - or blessedly bisexual - perhaps Aziraphale would have stood a chance.

He wanted to believe he  _ would have _ . He'd spent many hours of countless days toying with that fantasy. So many hours that it had eventually become a cross to bear, wanting and dreaming of something he could never have.

His throat had burned with unuttered hopes, his mouth ablaze with words that he'd ended up grinding into nothing between his teeth. He'd felt that sour taste of jealousy, pungent on his tongue, the numerous times Crowley had been presented with unsolicited phone numbers slipped in bills, or the business cards of admirers in restaurants. He felt the prickle of tears in his eyelashes. The deep feeling of despondency threaded too firmly into his being.

Aziraphale was so well aware of all that.

And Gabriel… well, Gabriel had been a flimsy attempt to break out of that all-encompassing feeling that was smothering him slowly with each passing day. But it had clearly been the wrong thing to do, and now he was paying the price. 

The door thrummed then, as if someone was banging a fist on it, making Aziraphale jump out of his skin. " _ Aziraphale! Angel, please open up!" _

His heart raced, tripping over his own fear, the fear of losing whatever tendrils of Crowley's friendship were still there. He tried to rein in his breathing, because he was starting to feel lightheaded. 

Why couldn't Crowley leave the situation alone? Pretend nothing had happened? Spare him the mortification of being flayed open in his festering pain. Was that too much to ask? 

" _ Angel, we need to talk _ !" Another quick set of knocks that resounded too strongly within Aziraphale. " _ C'mon, Aziraphale, please _ !"

_ Oh, bugger.  _

He swallowed hard, the blood rushing to his ears, drowning out all his carefully-crafted reasons to stay buried in the safety of his room. He needed to  _ see _ Crowley. To explain. To tell him he was going to get over it. It would be easy. It was nothing. 

It would be nothing. 

In the lapse of a synapse gone wrong, Aziraphale opened the door, and the realization engulfed him like an avalanche. It wasn’t easy at all. 

Crowley lurched forward, catching himself at the last possible second before collapsing in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Angel,” Crowley rasped, his eyes ablaze with intent, sharp and burning through Aziraphale. Demanding, “Is it true?”

And what was the truth, really? The words wedged in his throat, making him gag in an answer that wouldn’t come. Crowley’s hands clasped his arms, handfuls of his shirt crumpled along squeezed flesh. “Aziraphale, is it true?” 

He felt heat warming his cheeks, his breath heavy, fanning his own lips. Some things couldn’t be hidden forever. “Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, wretched. “Yes, it’s true.” 

“Angel…” 

Anything but pity. Anything at all. Aziraphale couldn’t take it. “Don’t  _ Angel _ me,” he bristled, finally leveling his gaze to Crowley’s. “You don’t have to coddle me, Crowley. I won’t stand a pity party. You’re better than this.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Angel, that’s not—”

“That’s not what?” Aziraphale’s heart raged in his chest, tears welling in his eyes. “Not what you expected? Oh, I’m sure of it. Neither did I, and here I am. Believe me, I'm quite aware of my predicament.” His tongue was wording phrases, bypassing his brain, and he felt the horrible, painful confession frothing out. Unbarred. Certainly unwanted. “I fell in love with you," he heard himself croaking from afar, "and I’m sorry. Now, please. Leave me alone." 

There. No more hiding. Aziraphale was trembling like a leaf, and the tug assaulting his stomach was like being ripped from the branch to face the painful fall.

" _ No _ ."

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. "No?"

"Oh, god, Angel." Crowley's palms were framing his face, and he was smiling, bright as the sun after a storm. "I won't go. Ever. I love  _ you _ , Aziraphale."

The fall never came.

Crowley kissed him, desperately, his fingers grinding into Aziraphale's hair, lips warm and real, all too real, against his. It was overwhelming.  _ Exhilarating _ . And Aziraphale had had everything wrong, because he  _ was _ falling, after all. So he clung to that ridiculously oversized hoodie like a lifeline, getting lost in the moment. Crowley's lips were smooth and moist, pressing and insistent, and Aziraphale's eyes, closed by instinct, flew open to not miss a detail. Freckles on Crowley’s nose. Auburn lashes, lush against cream skin. Aziraphale was drowning in a sea of touches that were not enough, in the press of skin on skin that burned like a firebrand. But the flicker of long-held doubt swirled inside, and Aziraphale pulled away, against the worst part of himself.

"But, you… Crowley, I don't understand… " The breath of the words bounced off Crowley's mouth. Against lips bitten red. 

"I know, Angel, I know," Crowley whispered, bringing their foreheads together, and there was regret heavy in his voice as he murmured the words into Aziraphale's lips. "I was blind. I was a fool. But you're all I want… all I need. Always. Aziraphale, I  _ love you _ ."

And it had been simple all along, after all, because Aziraphale was crying and laughing against Crowley's mouth, winding his arms around Crowley's neck, and being embraced in return. Crowley's breath was hot against his jaw, his lips now pressing against the hot-blood flesh of his neck. They moved, oddly in sync, tumbling over the bed, giving their hands no reprieve. And Aziraphale couldn't have stopped even if he’d wanted to. He buried his nose in the groove of Crowley's neck, taking a long gulp of blessed scent. Sharp. Citris.  _ Loved _ . 

"You've no idea," Crowley said, crushing the words against Aziraphale's pulse spot, and sucking a bruise there, like a gift, Aziraphale thought. "No idea how much I've been wanting to do this. How badly I  _ want _ you."

And,  _ good lord _ , the need grating beneath those words had Aziraphale hard in his trousers, making him groan a low drawn-out sound, deep in his throat. He watched Crowley shed his hoodie, a very clear and readable expression on his face.  _ Hunger _ .  _ Lust _ . Flashing beneath the altogether blinding love written there. All the blood in Aziraphale's body pooled in his cheeks, and thank god he was sitting or his knees would've given out on him. 

"You're so beautiful, Angel," Crowley said, pulling him closer, and there was awe in his gaze, truth laced with devotion that mollified any reserves Aziraphale could've had. Their hands joined in a riot to undo the buttons of his frankly obnoxious shirt, ripping a few in the process, but Aziraphale couldn't have cared less. "I can't believe I get to touch you. That I finally get to  _ have _ you."

" _ Crowley… _ "

Aziraphale  _ melted  _ as Crowley nosed the curve of his ear while undressing him, methodically, with keen attention to detail, lavishing every newly-revealed span of flesh with open-mouthed kisses and a rake of teeth. Aziraphale reminded himself to breathe, to ground himself in the heat of Crowley's body, now pressing against whole swaths of him. He was painfully hard, and he felt Crowley's erection straining against his thigh. They toed out of their shoes, carelessly, while Aziraphale sucked Crowley's skin, chasing the delicious flush of his neck, relishing the filthy moans and noises pouring from his mouth. And he sought every nook, every burrow, every space with his tongue, tasting the brackish tang of Crowley's sweat,  _ starving _ . He'd been hungry for so long. 

"Crowley, please, oh  _ please, _ " he said, breathless, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth while he laid back on the bed with the weight of Crowley's body looming over him. He didn't know what he was asking for, his brain rendered to mush as his hands skimmed over Crowley's back, tracing the stark ribs, his own need weighing down his belly. Crowley's fingernails raked over his sides like pinpricks of pain and pleasure, the length of his thigh grinding against Aziraphale's cock driving him mad with desire. 

"What do you want, my love," Crowley hummed, his words ragged and hoarse around the edges. He licked stripes over Aziraphale's chest, finally working his own trousers off. Aziraphale made the terrible mistake of letting his gaze travel south, and caught sight of Crowley's mouth hovering over his crotch. His head spun. Aziraphale bucked his hips against that promise, whining when he was unable to reach, and Crowley chuckled, crawling up to meet him. "Tell me what you need, Angel."

Crowley's thighs bracketed his hips, the ruffle of the rust-red hair of his legs bristling against him, their hips rolling all on their own. He breathed in Crowley's scent yet again, nuzzling his neck, committing every wisp to memory. 

"You. I need you, Crowley.  _ Please _ ." Aziraphale kissed him again, deep and heady, tongue and teeth very much present. "I want  _ you _ ," he said, pulling away by a hairbreadth. “I want to have you  _ in _ me.”

" _ Fuck _ ." The air rushed out of Crowley, warming the damp skin of Aziraphale's jaw. A sharp, stuttered breath between them. "Christ, Angel," he said, a thin ring of gold manifesting around lust-blown pupils. "Can I first-" 

"What, darling?"

"Can I suck you off?" he asked, and Aziraphale’s toes curled hard, tensing the muscles of his thighs, trembling with anticipation.

"Y-yes," he croaked, his own need hitting him like a tidal wave. 

Crowley slithered down, peppering feather-light kisses over his chest, circling the shallow dip of his navel, teeth catching on his hard nipples, trailing down to the soft tuft of blonde hair. But then, from far away, Aziraphale's lust-fogged brain screamed at him.

"Wait, wait, Crowley. Have you got yourself tested?"

It took Crowley a second to bounce back to reality. "Uh, yeah, six months ago for work, and you know I haven't been with anyone for a year."

Aziraphale smiled softly. "Oh good. So have I and I haven't… well, you get my meaning."

Crowley chuckled against his thigh. "Good, then. May I continue?"

"God, yes.  _ Please _ ."

Crowley mouthed at Aziraphale’s cock over his boxers, eyes glinting with amusement. “Really, Angel, tartan?”

Aziraphale arched against the bed. “What? It’s— it’s  _ stylish _ ,” he groaned, while Crowley rolled the offending undergarment down and tossed it away.

“God, I love you, you fussy relic.”

Any reply died in Aziraphale’s mouth when Crowley’s lips skimmed along his inner thighs, hands anchoring on the muscle of Aziraphale's hips, applying just enough pressure.

Crowley blew a gust of hot breath against Aziraphale's cock, licking it from root to tip and Aziraphale fought not to cry out. He was feverish with the glorious feeling of Crowley's naked body between his thighs, Crowley's tongue licking his bollocks, now sucking one into his mouth before trailing down to his perineum. Aziraphale bucked his hips as much as he could with Crowley's hands pinning him in place.

"Easy, Angel. We have all night," Crowley rasped, and Aziraphale felt a cheeky grin against his skin.

"Where— oh,  _ god _ !" He arched yet again when Crowley hoisted his legs on his shoulders, spreading him open, his tongue dipping into Aziraphale arsehole, nose in his balls as if he was trying to suffocate against it. "Where— did you even— learn that?"

Crowley didn't answer right away, now moving up and clasping the base of Aziraphale's cock, gently. "Told you, I've been dying to do this. I may have let myself get carried away in the fantasy and, well, my browser history might be a bit colorful now."

Aziraphale chuckled amidst the jolts of pleasure. "Fiend." Then there was hot breath against the head, and Aziraphale was not prepared for the eagerness with which Crowley swallowed his cock, inches to the root.

"Oh,  _ fuck _ !" 

And, god above, the tongue in that mouth! It swirled and flattened against his underside, teasing the most sensitive parts of him. Aziraphale shut his eyes, fisting a handful of that gorgeous red hair, and perhaps he yanked, but Crowley didn’t complain. He felt his cock completely engulfed in that delicious wet heat, the pressure almost too much as he guided Crowley's head up and down his length. His pleading became garbled noises of praise, moaned iterations of Crowley's name, and feeble gasps around blasphemies. Aziraphale's fingers dug into Crowley’s scalp, all ten now weaved in crimson strands, and he sobbed as Crowley took him deeper, his tip hitting the back of Crowley's throat over and over and over again. 

Aziraphale's head thumped against the pillows. “God, oh,  _ god _ , Crowley,  _ yes _ !”

He wrenched his eyes open, and stared transfixed as Crowley swallowed him whole, the sinews of his neck straining, his throat pulsing every time Aziraphale pushed his cock in, stretching him perfectly. It beat any idle fantasy he could've harbored, taking his breath away and making him feel a frisson of possessiveness as he flexed his fingers in that luscious fiery hair and  _ pulled _ . Crowley looked positively debauched, a blush stealing under his freckles and spit dribbling down his chin, filthy and oh so  _ right _ . Aziraphale felt molten lava roiling in his gut, whined out a warning. And then Crowley hummed, bobbed his head faster, hollowing his cheeks, and Aziraphale came with a  _ shout  _ slanting to a growl, his neighbors be damned. He pushed Crowley down on him, despite himself, the aftershocks wrecking him apart until finally he just lay there, panting, a boneless heap with a foolish grin and far more content than he’d felt in ages. 

Crowley surged up, kissed him passionately, and Aziraphale moaned, tasting himself in Crowley’s tongue. 

“You taste as good as you look, Angel,” Crowley said, brushing a wayward white-blond lock from Aziraphale’s forehead. Bless him, he sounded completely hoarse.

“Do I?” Aziraphale beamed, still needing Crowley, still wanting him. Soft kisses followed, intensifying his desire. “Please, could you… ?” he asked, and if he sounded a tad desperate, he was way past caring.

Crowley mouthed his throat, rutted against his thigh. “Are you sure?"

“Never been more sure, Darling.” Aziraphale extended a hand and rummaged in his nightstand to grab an almost-unused bottle of lube, giving it to Crowley and spreading his thighs wide.

"Greedy thing, aren’t you?" Crowley smirked, but knelt between Aziraphale's legs, sliding his palms up and down that pale skin. Aziraphale writhed, knees bent on the mattress. And what a sinfully sweet view he had, because Crowley's narrow frame fit perfectly there. One finger in, and Aziraphale gasped, feeling the slight burn of the breach passing the tight ring of muscle. Crowley took his time, adding more lube, thrusting languorously before adding a second finger, making Aziraphale yelp.

“I can’t wait to feel you around me, Angel," Crowley said, and his voice reeked of want. He curled his fingers and placed a kiss to the inner side of his knee. “Fuck,” he groaned, pushing his fingers deeper inside Aziraphale's body, "I love you."

Aziraphale moaned, and cried out because then Crowley added a third finger, pressing,  _ pressing, _ and Aziraphale twisted fistfuls of quilted bedspread as if his life depended on it.

"Crowley, I can't…" His head thrashed against the pillows, "I need you now.  _ Now _ !"

"Whatever you want, Angel. Anything," Crowley panted, pressing a kiss on Aziraphale's mouth.

Crowley scooted closer, until the sharp jut of his hips was against the back of Aziraphale's thighs, and the heavy promise of his cock pressed against his hole. Crowley took himself in hand, slicking himself with lube, sliding the head of his cock back and forth over Aziraphale's rim, making him almost whine in despair. 

And then he pushed in.

Their gasps and groans mixed in the sweltering atmosphere, as Crowley slid in, inch by inch, burying himself inside Aziraphale to the hilt. It felt so full, just short of painful, slotting into the space that was just right. The world condensed to just the bed. 

"Fuck, Aziraphale.  _ Christ _ . Don't— don't move, Angel, or I'm— I'm gonna come." Aziraphale watched Crowley, bit his bruised lips, a deep concentration in his hazel eyes. "You're so bloody tight. Feels so bloody good."

Aziraphale moaned, reveling in the hot drag, in the thick and heavy weight of Crowley's cock inside him. It was… it was maddening. He felt Crowley twitching against his fluttering walls, long fingers kneading the plush flesh of his thighs. 

And then, "Okay," Crowley breathed, giving him a kiss. "Nice and slow, eh?"

Aziraphale smiled and nodded.

Crowley set his pace, rocking his hips with calculated motions. Aziraphale's legs clasped behind his back, pulling him closer, rolling his hips to meet every thrust.

"Oh, god. Oh, Crowley, you feel amazing," he cried out under a particularly skilled push of Crowley's hips. "So bloody good."

"Angel, I can't—" Crowley keened, hips rocking ceaselessly, squelching sounds tagging along every movement. "You're too much. Gorgeous. Angel, you're gorgeous. I love making you moan like that, look like that."

They sailed through stages of need, Crowley thrusting lovingly at first and then shifting incrementally deeper. Faster. Hitting the bundle of nerves inside Aziraphale, making him feel full and gloriously blank, his body complying again and again against the intrusion.

Crowley's arms gave up eventually, and he fell on Aziraphale's chest, pounding into him with a sense of abandon, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, thrusting hard enough to jostle the bed forward until the headboard bumped the wall, digging a crescent in the paint. 

"Mine," he chanted, "I can't believe you're mine."

A whine caught in Aziraphale's throat, his cock pressed between their bodies and it wasn't long before he was spilling on his chest with a sob, his spine going bow-taut and his come smeared between their bodies by Crowley's relentless thrusts. A current of white electricity careened through Aziraphale, lighting up every nerve, every cell, until he was a pulsing speck swayed by the waves of his pleasure. 

Crowley fucked him through the aftershocks, on wrinkled sheets, until his hips stuttered in their rhythm, thighs slapping against Aziraphale's arse. "Aziraphale I'm going to,  _ fuck _ , going to—"

"I have you, dear," Aziraphale croaked and jerked his hips just so. Crowley grunted his pleasure then, coming with a shudder deep inside Aziraphale, gripping his waist hard enough to bruise before collapsing.

Time stopped completely as Crowley lay blanketing him. Their breaths mingled, their hearts synced in a raging rhythm that gradually slowed. 

Eventually, Crowley rolled to his side, and bestowed a kiss on Aziraphale's neck.

"How are you feeling, you gorgeous thing," Crowley asked, draping an arm around Aziraphale's middle and drawing circles on his thigh. "I should clean us up."

"Ship-shape and Bristol fashion, my dear," he said, awash in golden bliss, although he could feel his hamstrings protesting from the exertion. "And do wait a minute, yes? We'll have to change the sheets as well, and I do not feel like moving quite yet." He wanted to bask in the feeling of Crowley's seed dribbling out of him and dripping down his thighs, just a little longer.

Crowley nodded and took his hand, kissing the inside of his wrist.

"I guess," he said, once they were comfortably settled, spooning on their sides, Aziraphale trailing kisses on his neck. "Guess now I have to send a card to Gabriel to thank him for being such a tosser."

"Oh, Crowley, must you name him? Now?"

"Must I? Yeah. He thought himself so clever trying to embarrass you. Well, let him see how  _ that _ worked out."

Aziraphale chuckled against Crowley's shoulder blades, felt him shudder and burrow deeper in his arms. 

In one swift moment, the enormity of it all sank into Aziraphale's stomach and he reeled, breathless.

He gasped, "I still can't believe…." He choked on the unuttered words, stifling the fear of losing what he'd just finally found.

"I know, Angel, neither can I." Crowley turned, staring directly into his eyes and kissed him, tenderly. "But, hey. We have eternity to try." 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/)!


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